New SPN story: The Night Country 1/2

[destina]

Notes and warnings here.


The Night Country
by Destina

At first, there were two voices rising slowly over each other, similarly deep and urgent, and Dean wasn't sure how to pick them apart, which to follow. He listened, pushed forward on a slow wave of pain, until the voices separated and became distinct.

"Dean, oh, God, no. Listen to me! That's not Dad! It's not him!"

Sam's voice, far away, but there was something closer.

"You always wanted to be closer to your father, didn't you, Dean? You always wanted him to love you more. Well, he loves you. Let me show you how much."

Dean recognized that voice, the deep growl, the soft approval in it. The sound of it was so close, too close to be a voice at all. It was inside his head...

...it was inside him.

He could feel his hands again, aching, maybe broken; they were bloody, and they were on the floor, close enough that he could see them curled and clenched in front of his face when he opened his eyes. He pushed up from the ground, tried to fight, but his father's hands - not Dad, it's the demon, the demon -- closed over them, pushed them flat to the ground and held them there. He stared at the scar across his father's thumb, the place where a phantom cat's claw had struck him and pulled the gun from his hand. No gun now, nothing but brute strength and oh, Jesus Christ, the thing possessing his father was on top of him and now he knew, now he could feel it inside him, not just its voice but...Oh, Christ.

"Dean! DEAN!"

Sammy again. Dean gritted his teeth and ground out a low moan. He wanted to shout: don't look, close your eyes, don't see this.

Too late.

Blood coated his tongue, warm copper on his lips. He lifted his head and spat, and the demon's hand moved then, sliding up through his hair and pushing his head back down, hard. "Now you can be his favorite," the voice said in his ear with a soft chuckle, and then a grunt, so obscene that Dean drew in a breath.

Nausea hit then, but he'd be goddamned if he'd puke now. Not the worst thing that had ever happened to him. Not by a fucking long shot.

"Beg, Dean," the soft low voice said in his ear. "Beg him to stop. He can hear you." A vicious twist of the hips, for emphasis. When Dean choked out a curse, the thing said, "He can feel you."

Dean looked down and realized his hand was free.

He pushed up, pushed back, and his elbow connected sharply with skin and bone. He grinned, but it didn't last. Pain tore out from his chest, something ripping inside him. Sam's voice rose on the crest of that pain, a shouted plea. "Dean, oh, God, please, stop fighting it, it's going to kill you. Dean! Dean, listen to me. Oh, God!"

When Sam's voice broke, something inside Dean gave way, and he stopped struggling.

"Dean," the voice rasped in his ear, and then a soft chuckle. "You trying to take all the fun out of it? Don't you think Sammy's enjoying the show? Don't you want to make it good for him?"

The image of Sam's horrified face flashed through Dean's mind; the taste of bile burned the back of his throat. He couldn't think about that now -- not if he wanted to get through this with his sanity.

He could feel his father's heartbeat raging against the bare skin of his back like a drum, keeping insistent double-time with every breach of his body, and his own pulse hammering against his skin in answer.

Not your fault, Dad. My fault. I should have known.

His throat closed on the word he'd been trying to say, keeping it safe. Dad. His father couldn't help him now, and he hoped John was as far away as he could go, retreated down deep where the demon couldn't make him feel it anymore. At least then one of them wouldn't have to remember.

Teeth latched onto the back of his neck, biting deep. Rising panic renewed the fight in him, but he was pinned so tightly that he could only shout in pain, eyes screwed shut. The thrusts became violent, angry, the bites followed by a warm tongue smoothing over his skin, and the sound in the back of his throat was involuntary.

He'll taste the iron in your blood.

The demon stopped moving, and everything stilled. Dean turned his face down, pressing it against the floor boards as the soft exhale of breath across his neck made him shiver.

"I think we're done here," the demon said, and then the pressure was gone; the weight of his father's body lifted from him, and he fell to the floor, shaking. For a moment the world went black.

When he opened his eyes, there was nothing but the soft sound of someone crying. Sammy. Panic overwhelmed him; please, not Sam. He tried to roll over, get to his feet to help him, but Sam said, "It's gone, Dean, just stay still."

Dean opened his mouth to reassure, to tell Sam to pull it together, but no words came out. Only a soft gasp, and then a sob, and fuck it, he was not going to cry, he'd had worse, it was pain he could live with, he was not going to fucking cry.

Sam knelt beside him and Dean flinched away, not able to look at Sam's face. Not yet. He rolled onto his back, reached down and pulled up his jeans, hissing. Sam made a sympathetic noise, but made no move to help him. "The Colt," Dean rasped, easing down his torn shirt.

"The demon took it," Sam said. "I couldn't stop it, I tried, I -- Dean." His voice cracked on Dean's name. Dean took a couple of deep breaths, trying to make the world stop spinning. He had to get centered, find some focus.

"It's not your fault, Sam," he said, voice low. His left hand was on fire, so he used his right to zip his fly and lever himself up. The moment he was upright, pain spread through his body, centered on his ass. "I'm okay," he said, through gritted teeth, meaning...He didn't know what the fuck he meant, but he wasn't dead and Sam wasn't dead and even...their father...wasn't dead and anything else, he could live with.

"We have to get moving. It could come back," Sam said urgently. He got to one knee, then reached out toward Dean, slowly, the need to move thrumming off him in waves. Dean nodded; Sam looped his arm under Dean's and hauled him to his feet. Dean looked up at Sam's tear-streaked face and swallowed hard.

"It's not coming back," he said, unsure how he knew, but he was sure; they'd see it again, but not now. It thought it had broken him. Them. He'd be goddamned if he'd let that be true. Think, Dean. "It probably took the car."

It.

The word should have made distance between him and that thing, but it wasn't an it; the thing was his father, and it had-it--

"Dean," Sam said, and his hand came to rest on the back of Dean's neck, covering painful wounds. "Come on."

He wanted to say I can't walk, but he could, and he wanted to say this isn't happening, but it already had, so he moved. One step, then another one, and Sam's hand stayed right where it was.

***

The interior of the Impala smelled like fresh blood. Sam's stomach turned over because it was Dean's blood, not their shared injuries after some hunt, not something they could laugh about. He spared a moment to be grateful the demon hadn't bothered to take the car; it was the only break they'd had in this mess.

He jammed his foot down on the gas and pushed the car as hard as it would go. Dean was quiet in the seat next to him, twisted sideways, half-laying across the car, his head not quite on Sam's shoulder. He'd made a sound when Sam gently helped him in, a sound Sam would have called a whimper if it were anyone but Dean.

He reached out to roll down the window, regardless of the rain, and Dean stirred next to him. Sam looked down at Dean's face, at his open eyes and pale skin, and said, "I already know you don't want --"

"No hospital," Dean said. "Just...find a place to stop. Anywhere."

Sam's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. It was Dean's body, but Sam was never going to be able to get the horror of what he's seen out of his head, never. All the muscles in his throat, his neck, his shoulders were strained; he'd pulled so hard to loosen the invisible grip holding him to the wall that he'd torn something, he was sure of it, but it didn't matter, because Dean had been sprawled on the floor like a broken toy while that demon took its time. Sam could feel the hate eating through him, one burning spark at a time.

He wiped tears out of his eyes and scanned the road ahead. Two billboards, one for a diner and the second for a motel two miles east. He pulled the wheel hard and followed the faded arrow left, down a dark dirt road a tiny motor inn.

The woman at the desk looked like she'd been shaken out of a deep sleep, hair all frizzed to one side and the lines from her pillow engraved on her face. She handed Sam the key without comment, averting her eyes from the blood all over his jacket and shirt.

He parked in front of the room and unlocked the door, then took in everything he thought they might need, weapons and clothes and supplies and two bottles of tequila Dean thought Sam didn't know about, and then he went back for Dean.

This time, Dean wouldn't let him touch, just shrank away and slid out of the front seat, wobbling toward the open door. No bad jokes, no faint smile, nothing but a bloody shell. Dean stopped just inside the door and tore his shirt off over his head, then flung it away. Deep, livid scratches everywhere, bruises all over his back, and those bites, Jesus Christ, it looked like...what it was.

Sam slammed the car door shut and followed Dean inside. He closed and locked the door and picked up a box of salt, studiously ignoring Dean as he shed his belt, his boots...but not his jeans. Sam squashed the impulse to go to him and help; instead, he poured thick lines of salt in front of the door and windows.

Dean slammed the bathroom door, and the next moment, the shower turned on.

Sam's knees went out from under him and he crashed to the floor. With one hand over his face, he bit his lip, willing himself not to cry.

It seemed to take forever, but he yanked himself back from the brink. He could hear Dean's voice in his head, mocking him: Damn, Sammy, it wasn't you that had the Deliverance experience. But there was no humor in it. Not now.

He looked at the box of salt on the floor where he'd dropped it. He got to his feet, picked up the salt, then knocked on the bathroom door. "Dean? I'm sorry, man, but if there's a window in there, I've got to salt it." He didn't bother to say what Dean already knew in his blood and bones: we can't take any chances now.

No answer, just the water running. Fear passed over Sam in cold waves, and he reached out for the handle, but then Dean's faint voice emerged: "Whatever."

Sam turned the knob and pushed the door open slowly; a cloud of steam billowed over him. When it cleared, he saw the shower curtain closed, obscuring Dean. To his left, the sink; to the right, a high window. He salted the sill as best he could, salt trickling down onto the tiles below, and then he turned, leaving the door open. Dean's bag was on the floor where Sam had left it, and he burrowed in, pulling out the softest clothes he could find, and Dean's shaving kit with all his personal shit inside. He took them back to the bathroom and set them on the closed toilet lid, then picked up Dean's bloody jeans and underwear without actually looking at them. He withdrew, closing the door.

He needed a shower himself, and now he was clammy with damp, but it didn't matter. He shucked off his clothes quickly, changing into the first thing he could find that didn't need washing, and made coffee. He turned down the beds and switched on the TV. There was something comforting and normal about the chattering heads on the screen.

Slowly, he folded Dean's clothes into a tiny ball and stuffed them into the corner of his own duffel.

The bathroom door cracked open and more steam emerged. Dean was in its midst, with his hair sticking up in all directions, sweatpants on, tee-shirt in his hand. He passed Sam, giving him a brief smile, chilling in its lack of sincerity. It took him three tries to sit down on the bed farthest from the window, and his grimace of pain was more eloquent than the half-hearted attempt at a smile.

"You're going to have to clean these bites so they don't get infected," Dean said, matter-of-fact. "I can't reach them."

Sam flashed briefly on the other injuries, other things just as likely to bleed and become infected, but Dean wasn't going to be willing to hear it, he already knew.

"Coffee or tequila?" Sam asked. Dean turned and gave him a look that clearly said tequila, asshole. A smile ghosted over Sam's face. He popped open the bottle and poured half a glass for Dean, handing it to him without comment.

"Thanks." Dean tossed the entire thing back. Sam handed him the bottle.

Sam fished for the antibacterial ointment, peroxide, and band-aids, digging them out of the giant bag of miscellaneous useful crap they carried everywhere. When he turned back to Dean, a third of the tequila was gone, and the bottle was back on the nightstand. Dean's good hand was clenched in the bedspread, and his head was down. Something about that posture disturbed Sam on a level so deep he couldn't put words to it.

Sam's phone rang, startling them both. "Sorry," Sam said, though he had no idea why, and he dove for his jacket, fishing the phone out of the pocket. He glanced down at the screen and drew in his breath sharply.

Without taking his eyes off Dean, he flipped open the phone, but said nothing. On the other end, his father's voice, quiet, full of gravel. "Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam said, and watched Dean's expression transform before his eyes, wary fear overtaking it.

"Thank God. Sam, is Dean all right?"

Sam clutched the phone hard enough to hear the plastic crack. "What do you think?"

"Sammy, please...Your brother..." A long silence, and then Sam realized with horror that his father - if it really was his father, and not some fucked-up head game the demon was playing - was crying. "It wasn't me, Sam."

Sam's jaw tightened, and he looked down at the floor, and then at the salted lines at the window and door. He said nothing.

"Sammy. Where are you? I'm...I'm not sure where I am, but I'll come to you. Just tell me where you are. I have to know your brother's okay."

All the hair on Sam's neck stood up. When he met Dean's eyes, Dean stood up.

Sam flipped the phone closed and tossed it on the bed, where it lay innocuous, quiet. Dean went pale and turned wildly, snagged the tiny plastic trashcan from under the night table and bent over it. Everything left in his stomach came up in seconds, and with it the revolting smell of tequila and sour bile. Sam went to Dean and stood beside him, helpless in his urge to do something.

Dean set the can down on the table and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. Then he sat back down and looked up at Sam with a granite-hard expression. "The bites, Sam," he said, and Sam nodded, because it was all he could do.

He looked at the vast expanse of bed behind Dean, and then at Dean. "I'm...I'll have to..."

Dean gestured impatiently. Sam glanced at the desk chair, thought about how hard its thin seat was. Not an option.

It was awkward as hell to crawl onto the bed behind Dean, who was sitting so close to the edge he might as well be sitting on air, but Sam did it as gently as he could. Dean's back was a lean whipcord of knotted muscle, striped with claw marks, dotted with livid bruises and those hideous bites. Sam dumped his armful of supplies on the bed; they rolled down the spread to rest by Dean's hip. He started at the top, near Dean's neck; his brother's skin smelled like cheap hotel soap. "Was the water pressure high enough to really clean these?" he asked softly.

Dean didn't answer, which was answer enough. Nothing Sam could do about it short of dragging Dean to a hospital, so he sloshed some peroxide on a cotton ball and touched it, light as a feather, to Dean's skin. Dean didn't make a sound, not even a hiss of pain; his body was rigid. Quickly as he could, Sam moved from bite to bite, applying peroxide and antibiotic ointment, and covering them gently with two band-aids apiece.

He couldn't help counting; there were seven, each as vicious and angry as the last.

A sudden flash of his father's face, his rare broad grin, and Sam tilted his head to look up at the ceiling, gathering in blank white space to crush every other image. The goddamned tears were back, but he was getting better at ignoring them now.

When he'd finished, he said, "You really should take some antibiotics."

"In my bag," Dean said, drawing his tee-shirt over his head.

Sam found the pills in a plastic bag, ten of them, big and pink. "There's not enough here for a full course," he said, wondering where Dean got them and how long he'd had them, and what injury prompted him to pick them up. Dad would probably know.

Sam winced and handed Dean one of the pills, which Dean swallowed with a swig of tequila. Sam reached for the trashcan, but Dean said, "Leave it," which meant don't fucking nurse me. Sam grabbed the bottle of tequila instead and drank down a nice long swallow.

"Let me see your left hand," he said, putting the bottle down. For a second Dean looked like he was going to protest, lips shaped around a no. "Don't," Sam said sharply, and Dean glanced up at him long enough to get the full picture. He looked away, but he held out the hand the demon had stepped on. Sam put his open palm and spread fingers beneath Dean's shaking hand and said, "I can't tell if anything is broken this way."

"Well, let me help you out. The answer is yes."

Sam looked closely; Dean's pinkie was crooked. All he needed was a pencil, and he could set and splint it. The pencil was easy; there was one in his backpack. He found tape in the junk bag.

"Phone," Dean said, as Sam snapped the pencil.

"What?" Sam glanced back at the phone on the bed, but it was quiet.

"Give me the phone." Dean turned his hand over, resting the back of his fingers against Sam's. Sam picked it up from the bed, but didn't hand it to Dean, who looked up at him, frowning. "Today?"

Their father didn't have his cell; Meg had taken it, had called them on it. Sam placed the phone in Dean's hand. Dean dialed, then let Sam have his hand, let him set and splint and wrap to his heart's content, and it did make Sam feel better, even if Dean was suffering it for his sake.

"Bobby, it's Dean." Sam let go of Dean's hand, moved to sit on the bed opposite him. "Has my father been there?" Whatever Bobby answered, the muscle in Dean's jaw twitched in response. "No. We're coming to you. I need you to call me if--" He broke off and turned his face away from Sam. "Yeah." He closed the phone and tossed it to Sam.

"I don't know, Dean. Do you think that's wise?" Sam asked softly. He opened the phone, turned it off, and set it on the nightstand.

"Probably not," Dean said. He had the tequila again, was drinking straight from the bottle, long deep swallows that must have burned right down to the bottom of his stomach. Self-medication at its finest.

"Are you..." Sam hesitated. It sounded so stupid, to be asking such mundane questions, as if everything were normal. He swallowed, then tried again. "You want something to eat? I can run back down to the diner..."

Dean's head shot up, and the momentary fear in his eyes was enough to kill any thoughts Sam had about leaving. "Not hungry," Dean said.

"Why don't you try to get some sleep?"

"Why don't you?" Dean shot back.

Sam sat forward, clasped his hands between his knees. "I'm not tired." The door at his back was like a shape in his peripheral vision, something hovering just out of range.

Dean searched his face, which Sam kept carefully neutral, and took another long swallow of tequila. Half the bottle gone, now. He slammed it back down on the table. Carefully, slowly, he eased himself up on the bed and settled his head down on the pillow. The bruises on his face stood out stark and angry against the white pillowcase. He closed his eyes, lashes dark against pale skin.

Heavy fatigue settled on Sam's shoulders, but he stood up and faced the door. The place was laced with so much salt the floor was crunchy, but it didn't calm the low-grade skittery feeling of anxiety crawling over Sam's skin. He poured himself a cup of coffee and left it black; diluting the effects of the caffeine wasn't such a hot idea.

They were a few hours from Bobby's place. Sam was pretty sure he could make it there without killing them both, even if he didn't get any sleep. Once they were there, he could let Bobby take over, and he could close his eyes. Just for a while.

The second bed was too close to the window, but there was no way to go moving furniture around without disturbing Dean, so Sam sat down and drank his coffee, and tried to think about what was ahead. Dean was going to do what Dean did - not talk, not admit he was in pain, pretend it was something he could live with.

It had taken the better part of a year for Sam to realize that there were a lot of things Dean didn't cope with well, no matter how hard he pretended otherwise, and Sam was sure this was going to be one of them.

He forced himself to concentrate on the warm cup in his hands, the droning of the TV, blocking out images and sounds he didn't want to hear, couldn't stand to think about.

Belt buckle opening; zipper being pulled down; Dean, motionless on the floor, and the demon touching him, smiling over Dean's shoulder at Sam. The shape of his brother's name, pulled sideways by terror Sam had never felt before.

He glanced over at Dean and saw Dean was watching him. They looked at one another for a long moment before Dean rolled onto his back with excruciating caution, then to his other side, putting his back to Sam.

Sam took a deep breath and set the coffee down. From the bag by the door, he fished out the sawed-off shotgun and a supply of extra cartridges. He moved from the bed to the chair, facing the door, coffee in one hand, the comforting weight of the shotgun in his lap.

Eventually he turned the TV off and listened to Dean's soft, reassuring snores.

In the morning, he set the gun on the chair and took a three-minute shower, enough to wash Dean's blood off him, clean his own cuts and scratches with a quick swipe of soap, and rinse his hair. All the while he was thinking of the road ahead, of persuading Dean to give him the keys. His stomach growled loud enough to be heard three counties away; he felt like he hadn't seen a plate of food in a week.

He frowned. It seemed petty, thinking about his own damn oversized appetite when it was the least important thing happening here.

Dawn was beginning to glimmer outside, putting a weak thread of light through the cracks in the curtains, when Sam sat down on the bed beside Dean and laid a hand gently on his elbow. Dean's face was relaxed in sleep, but the bruises had deepened, and he looked like he had taken the beating of his life. "Dean."

Dean's eyes flew open and he gasped, pushing up from the bed. Instinct made Sam remove his hand fast. Dean turned to him, wild-eyed, and slowly the fight left him, until he was fully awake. "Sam," he said, and he relaxed back into the bed.

"We should get going," Sam told him, running his hand through his wet hair so he wouldn't be tempted to do anything stupid like touch Dean with it.

"Did you sleep at all?" Dean asked, and there was too much sharp assessment in the way he was looking at Sam.

"No," Sam said. "You know why." He paused, then asked, "Did you...get any rest?"

"Sort of," Dean said, that muscle twitching in his jaw again. He looked like he was held together with band-aids and string, ready to fly apart any second. Sam didn't press.

Just then Sam's stomach decided to announce itself loudly, and amazingly, the glimmer of a smile moved into Dean's eyes, reflected in the tiny quirk of his lips. "Guess we need to get you some breakfast," he said, and Sam smiled.

"You, too."

It was a good plan in theory, but in reality, the smell of eggs, toast, and bacon stopped Dean like a brick wall, and he skidded to a stop beside Sam in the gravel parking lot. "Go get something," Dean said, waving Sam on, already retreating to the Impala, sunglasses firmly in place like a mask.

Sam stood in the parking lot, watching him go; he took a step toward Dean, then stopped and looked back at the diner.

Five minutes later, he climbed into the driver's seat, chewing the last bite of his third glazed donut. He handed Dean a cup of coffee, which Dean accepted without comment.

Dean never asked him for the keys, never said he wanted to drive. He slid down in the seat and looked out the window as they hit the road and the miles piled on.

**

By the time they pulled into the driveway of Bobby's junkyard, Dean had to piss like a racehorse. Too much tequila-water racing through his veins. He was desperate to get out of the car and away from mother hen Sam, whose watchful gaze on him was making him fucking insane.

At least Sam had the good sense not to try to talk to him about it. For that much, Dean was grateful.

The moment he saw Bobby's face, his stomach cramped; sorrow was written all over Bobby's face, and Dean knew what it meant. He looked at Sam, who met his eyes and nodded, and they got out of the car as Bobby approached them.

"Welcome back, boys," he said quietly.

"He called you, didn't he?" Sam's voice was flat.

Bobby nodded. He held the door open. "Why don't you boys come in and get settled? You both look like forty miles of rough road."

The room was still a mess from the confrontation with Meg: broken shelves, books scattered everywhere. Dean was sure he must have some remnants from that day on his body, but other aches had overshadowed them. He walked further into the house, looked up at the ceiling; the devil's trap seemed to loom over the entire room.

Bobby drew up beside him and held something out - a silver flask of whiskey. Dean's stomach rumbled in protest at the idea of it, and he shook his head. "Got to use your bathroom," he said, glancing up once again at the symbols on the ceiling, and then he moved away, as fast as he could without actually running.

Once he'd locked the bathroom door behind him, he took a deep breath and released it, slow and shaky. All the sensations from the previous night's dreams were back with him, and he was inside a box, suffocating; all the air was gone. The heavy, stifling sense of it clung to him, choking all the oxygen from his lungs.

When he glanced at his reflection in the mirror, all he could see was his father's face.

He lifted the lid on the toilet and pissed what seemed like half a gallon, swaying unsteadily. Creepy little jags of memory were pecking at him, bits and pieces floating in that darkness between the moment the demon had smashed his face into the floor, and the moment he woke up with it on top of him.

Dean snorted. Nice, how he'd already started with the euphemisms. Better than thinking about how a demon had fucked him up the ass while wearing his father like a costume.

John wants to see you happy, Dean. It feels to me like you're happy now.

Sam was hovering outside the door when he opened it, which is what Dean expected. Sam was going to be hovering forever, or the portion of forever that fell between now and the moment Dean cracked his first real joke. He tried to muster one up, but still nothing.

"Dean, I'm..." He pointed back over his shoulder. "Bobby's going to hang out and keep watch, and I'm going to catch a little shut-eye. Are you-"

"Yes, Sam, I'm okay," Dean ground out, biting it off. At the look on Sam's face, he pressed his lips together and ducked his head. "Sorry, man."

"You don't have anything to apologize for," Sam said quietly. He hesitated, then turned and went down the hall without another word.

Dean carefully pulled his jacket off, one arm at a time. Too heavy, and it was scratching at his back in the wrong way. He threw it over a dining room chair and went into the living room to face Bobby.

He wished to hell he could find a way to sit down gracefully, but it wasn't working. He avoided Bobby's intense, kind stare as he settled on the couch. "So what did he say?" he asked, without preamble.

"A hell of a lot," Bobby said. "Wanted to know if you were here. I told him no, and I told him to stay the hell away, or I would finish what I started with that shotgun last time I saw him."

Dean's throat closed, and for a moment he couldn't breathe. When his voice came back, and he was sure he could speak steadily, he said, "It wasn't him, Bobby. I know that."

"Not that it makes what happened any easier," Bobby said, and Dean nodded, avoiding his eyes. "Listen, Dean. Let's face facts for a minute, here. You understand that you can't trust anything he says to you right now. Maybe not for a long time."

"Because I can't be sure it's really him," Dean said. The bites on his back were throbbing, and his heart felt like it might pound right out of his chest.

"Exactly." A pause, and then: "Dean, I'm sorry as hell this has happened to you."

"Forget it," Dean said. He set his jaw in a hard, firm line. "I'm doing my best to."

"Sure you are," Bobby said.

The room seemed to be getting smaller by the moment. By Dean's feet, a shadow passed, and he jerked his leg out of the way. "Careful," Bobby said. "That's Cheney."

"That's...what?" Dean looked down, and the nose of a black Labrador puppy poked out next to his boot.

"Some watchdog," Bobby snorted. "He's no Rumsfeld."

Dean reached down and scratched behind the puppy's ears. "Maybe he's better off inside," he said. After a moment, he asked. "What can you do to keep my father away from us?"

"Keeping in mind, of course, that the thing inside your dad ain't your dad," Bobby said, and took a sip of whiskey, "there are things I can do to make sure he can't touch you. Dangerous things, maybe painful - for you, I mean. But once it's done, it can't be undone. At least, not by me. You understand?"

Dean leaned forward, rubbed the puppy's snout, the patch of fur between its ears. His eyes were stinging. "Can you make sure he can't touch Sam?"

"If that's what Sam wants."

"It's what I want."

"Dean, it can just take another form anytime it wants. It probably already has. If I use this incantation to stop your father -"

"It wouldn't possess someone else to do this," Dean said. "It wants to break my family apart." He pulled his hand away from the puppy, ignoring its whimper of protest. "It's my responsibility to make sure it can't."

"All right, then." Bobby patted his hands on his knees twice and looked around the room. "There are a couple of grimoires we can-"

"Bobby." Dean saw the tone of his voice catch Bobby mid-movement, stop him cold. "You need to make sure I can't hurt Sam, either."

"Oh, Jesus," Bobby said. He sat back in the chair, one of his eyes crinkled in a half-squint. "Do you even know what the hell you're doing here, Dean?"

"I can't take any chances."

"Yeah. It's all about protecting Sam. I get that." Bobby sat forward. "But what about you? What if, God forbid, you need Sam's help and he can't get near you?"

Dean met Bobby's stare for as long as he could stand it, then looked away. His leg bounced, and he forced it to still. "He's not coming with me."

"So your big plan is to leave him here for me to baby-sit, all covered up in spells and incantations, and then - what? Go play ring-around-the-rosie with this thing? Track down your father? Have you lost your fucking mind?" Bobby stood up. "You know, boy, I always thought you had more sense than your father, but I see he's managed to infect you with his bullshit stubbornness."

"It's the only way," Dean said. "And I'm not asking you. I'm telling you."

"No, Dean." Sam's voice rang out clear in the quiet.

Dean looked up to see Sam standing so tall in the doorway that he seemed to fill it up, staring at Dean with an odd combination of crestfallen hurt and anger. "What the hell, Sammy? I thought you were going to get some sleep."

"I'm too wired," Sam said, "and never mind that - since when do you make plans for me without talking to me about it?"

"Since always?" Dean said hotly. "This isn't about you, anyway."

"Oh, really?" Sam raised his eyebrows. "Tell me you weren't about to leave me here and run off to find Dad."

"That about sums it up," Bobby said.

"Bobby, would you excuse us for a minute?" Sam's stare was eating right into Dean, and he had to fight an overwhelming urge to just run for the car, get in, and start driving, just drive until he could outrun this day, and the one before it, and maybe his own skin, which was crawling all over him.

"Sure thing," Bobby said. On his way by, he pressed the little flask of whiskey into Dean's hand.

Dean set the flask on the coffee table and tried a pre-emptive strike. "Listen, Sam-"

"I don't need you to protect me," Sam said. "Or make decisions for me. Those days are long gone."

Hot-tempered responses swirled on the tip of Dean's tongue, but he didn't say any of them. His right hand tightened into a fist, squeezing until his knuckles ached with the pressure. "It makes sense," he said finally, glancing up at Sam, who had his arms folded across his chest in classic Sam mode, ready for argument. Dean was too damn tired for the argument Sam was gearing up to have.

"No, it really doesn't." Sam sat down on the couch next to Dean, not too close. Dean could feel himself relaxing by degrees now that Sam was there, and he hated it, and hated Sam for understanding him so well, because that was going to make things harder. "If your big plan involves you going anywhere alone, forget it."

"I can't take the risk," Dean said, through gritted teeth. Vivid details crowded into his head: Sam hurt, Sam bruised, Sam with a host of bites on his skin, bleeding and raw because of Dean, and the pain of that was like acid under his skin. "You know it wants-"

"I know," Sam said softly. "Dean. It's my risk to take. We do this together, or you're not going. And don't think I can't stop you, because I can."

Dean eyed him, snapping to the challenge just like Sam had known he would, but the fight within him was not for Sam. "Think so?" he said, because that couldn't be left unchallenged.

A tiny smile manifested on Sam's face, full of gentle confidence. "Yeah."

"Yeah, well. That's just because I'm...off my game." Dean looked down at his hands, at the broken finger splinted off at an odd angle.

"We'll try it out when this is over," Sam said. Just like when they were kids, always eager to test himself against Dean, prove he was grown up, that he was as fast and tough as Dean was. Only now, Dean didn't need Sam to prove it to him anymore. For a fraction of a moment, he wished Sam was back at Stanford, safe and sound, but this was the road Sam had chosen. One more thing Dean was responsible for; one more thing he couldn't undo.

He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes and nodded, because his voice had deserted him.

"Good," Sam said, nodding back.

"So," Bobby said from the hallway, where he'd clearly been eavesdropping, "I've got something. Maybe the thing we need." He rounded the corner carrying a stack of books, odd shapes and sizes, and dumped them on the ground at Sam's feet, keeping one as reference. "There's a little incantation that'll keep you from being possessed by any kind of spirit or entity, including demons. It pretty much keeps everything living or undead from coming near you."

"That sounds perfect," Sam said, but Bobby wagged the book at him.

"You didn't let me get to the downside. It only lasts about three days - seventy-two hours, tops. Once it's done, it's done. You can't use it again."

"Well, that sucks." Dean scratched his head. "I guess we have to be pretty damn sure this is what we want to waste it on."

"I don't like it," Sam said. When Dean turned to him, ready to lay into him, Sam held up a hand. "No, listen, Dean. Shit like this backfires all the time. I don't want to be in a position where I can't help you."

"Well, that's an easy fix," Bobby said. He tapped the page. "Circle of two. I can bind you together and work the incantation on you as a single unit. Then as long as you're together, it'll work." He drew his finger along the page. "The only thing is - if you're separated by more than a few yards, it's like the incantation never happened. So you have to stay together."

Dean glanced at Sam. Sam shook his head and said, "That's nothing new."

**

Sam had never been so tired. Not when he'd stayed up three nights in a row cramming for first-year finals to keep the precious scholarships that kept him at Stanford; not when he'd been six and frightened awake in the car while zombie-looking things pounded on the door and Dean fumbled with holy water; not even when he'd first hooked up with Jess and he hadn't been able to stop thinking about her long enough to sleep for an entire weekend. This was the kind of tired that had him swaying on his feet, asleep with his eyes open and completely out of adrenaline, no back-up juice left at all.

Dean came up beside him, gave him a little push, and it knocked Sam off balance. To compensate, Dean grabbed his elbow and wrenched him upright again.

"You planning on getting some sleep after this?" Dean asked, ever direct.

"Maybe." Sam took off his shirt and folded it, then dropped it on his jeans, which were also folded neatly on the floor over his boots and socks.

Dean stood there awkwardly, still dressed except for his shoes, which were topsy-turvy under the table. He glanced at Bobby, who was busy writing incantations on pieces of paper and was scrupulously avoiding looking at them. Slowly, Dean slipped off his jeans and tossed them on the couch. Without looking at Sam, he peeled off his shirt and tossed it, too, and then they were standing there together in boxers and briefs, arms crossed over their chests.

For Sam, the need to look won out over the need to soothe Dean's embarrassment, and he did look, despite Dean's death glare. "Turn around," he said softly.

The protest died on Dean's split lip when he met Sam's eyes, and he did turn. There were spots of dried blood on Dean's briefs, and his back was a mass of black and blue and red. The band-aids seemed small and ineffective compared to the bruising. Sam tried to speak, discovered his throat was closed. He cleared it and tried again. "I need to dress those wounds again."

"Before or after we start playing in the paint?" Dean asked, turning his head sideways.

"After, I guess."

Bobby's head was bowed, and he had stopped fussing with the papers. Very quietly, he said, "Once this thing is done, you can wash the paint off. It won't matter." He glanced up at Sam for a fraction of a second, and Sam saw tears in his eyes as he quickly turned and started shelving books.

Dean reached for his shirt.

Sam caught his wrist. "No, Dean. Either you do this the way we agreed, or I'm not doing it, either."

"Dammit, Sammy."

"No," Sam said again, with a hint of iron in his voice. Dean nodded, and Sam let go of him. "Don't try to cover it up," he added, even more softly. "This is not your fault. Maybe Bobby needs to see it. Maybe he needs to understand."

Dean closed his eyes, and Sam thought that the circles of fatigue under his own eyes were nothing compared to the ones Dean was sporting.

"Let's get this show on the road," Bobby said. He was composed again, expression bland and compassionate. Sam was reminded of their father. He couldn't help it; he had twenty-three years of history to overcome, and he couldn't just stop thinking of him, no matter what kind of associations the memories brought to the surface. He sighed and let it go.

Bobby handed Sam a piece of paper and a pot of inky black paint that looked like it was leftover from some ancient art project. "Paint those on and let me know when you're done."

"Great," Dean said, staring at the set of symbols on the notebook page. "Art really isn't my thing."

"Shut up and spread your arms," Sam ordered. Dean's eyes narrowed, but he stretched his arms out to his sides. Sam stuck his finger into the paint and wiggled it around, then started dabbing symbols on Dean's sides, carefully, slowly. They weren't too complex, but they were somewhat intricate, and he didn't have a brush.

"Hey, Sam? Hate to break it to you, but your finger-painting sucks," Dean said, glancing down at Sam's handiwork all over his chest. "I'm sensing a serious lack of artistic talent here."

"Runs in the family," Sam retorted, concentrating on the work. He moved around Dean as he painted, ducking under his arm, until finally he was faced with how to finish the symbols on Dean's back without touching his wounds.

"Just do it," Dean said. So Sam dipped in and painted, slow swirling half-circles and fluid lines, over the top of band-aids, over the indented curves of bite marks, across the edges of purple-black bruises, around gashes and scratches the length of Dean's back.

Beneath his touch, Dean shivered and stood as still as a statue.

When Sam was finished, he pushed down on Dean's arm as a signal. "Finally," Dean sighed, and grabbed the page and paint from Sam. "My turn to torture you. Stand still."

"Get a ladder," Sam said, and Dean's lips quirked.

"Funny. Just wait until you get this crap on you and you start itching. We'll see who's laughing then."

"I'll still be laughing," Sam informed him, and for just that second, it was almost back to normal, testosterone and laughter, but then Dean reached up and winced at the pull of half-closed gashes. "Dean," Sam started, but Dean shook his head furiously.

"I swear to God, Sammy, if you start mothering me I will kick your fucking ass."

"Wasn't," Sam said, and trained his eyes straight ahead as Dean began jabbing paint onto his body with angry motions.

After a while, as Dean had to work harder to get the symbols right, his touch slowed, became more deliberate, less annoyed. There was a certain kind of zen to it, Sam thought; he'd felt the power in the symbols as he'd moved along. Dean's hands on him weren't unfamiliar. His brother had bathed him, dressed him, helped him shave the first time, sewn him up after hunts gone wrong, wrestled with him. There was a gentle comfort in the way Dean stopped, started, stopped again, trying to get it right. It made Sam's chest ache.

"Got it," Dean said finally, a touch of pride in his voice. Sam pressed his chin to his chest and looked down. His torso was a mess of black paint, sticky and flaking already, but it was done.

"This is so not going to come off in the shower," Sam said, and Dean actually snorted, not quite a laugh, but close. Just the sound of it made Sam smile.

"Bobby?" Sam called, and like magic, Bobby rounded the corner. He looked at both of them, and a grin quirked the corner of his mouth.

"You were right about that art thing," he said to Dean, and this time, Dean did smile, briefly. The ache in Sam's chest eased just a little.

"Now what?" Sam said.

"Now I do some mojo," Bobby said. He picked up a pocket-sized book that looked brittle enough to fall apart any second. "Stand closer together."

They each stepped sideways, until their shoulders were touching.

"Perfect." Bobby drew a simple salt line around them, enclosing them in a rough circle, then stepped back. He read something to himself, lips moving in practice, and then he said out loud: "Sui generis, benedictum."

Warmth radiated through Sam's body, starting in his belly and then out into his limbs, up through his chest. Suddenly the symbols were glowing, burning, and he gasped. It wasn't pain, exactly; it was heat, power, coursing through him. Beside him, Dean's breathing was shallow and rapid, and his eyes were closed again.

And then it was over; the heat was gone as suddenly as it had begun. Sam gave in to the impulse to raise a hand and wipe at his chest, pushing away the impression of burning skin. He and Dean glanced at each other. "That's it?" Dean said, frowning.

"Guess so," Sam said.

Bobby closed the book with a snap. "Yep. That's it."

"Huh," Dean said. "Well, that's...anticlimactic."

"Not everything can be flashy," Bobby said. "Some of those old magicians were practical, too. Got to get on with their day and whatnot."

"Right," Sam said. He picked up his shirt, handed Dean his, and they pulled them over their heads in unison.

"Not so fast," Bobby said. He set the book down and whipped off his shirt, then stood there looking from one to the other. "My turn."

Sam said, "What?"

"You're planning to bring John here, right? No offense, but I don't particularly want to get possessed, either. I like myself as I am." He folded his hands. "Best get to paintin'."

Dean picked up the paint and handed it to Sam, who handed it back. "I'll do half," he said, shoving the paint into Dean's hand when he resisted.

"Okay, but you're totally doing the front half," Dean hissed.

That's when Sam noticed the chest hair.

**

They said their goodbyes with full anticipation of being back within a day or two, and then they hit the road. "He can't have gotten far without a car," Sam said, handing Dean the map. He'd drawn a radius of their location vs. the location of all their father's local friends.

Dean stared at the precise circles and lines intersecting across the page, then set the map on the dashboard. "You know Dad. He's resourceful. We'll know when we call."

They went six hours, figuring that would put them close enough for their father to reach them within a day or so, far enough to keep him from jumping to the conclusion that they'd run to Bobby's, and then they started looking for someplace to grab a nap. Dean's motel of choice was a tiny dive right on the edge of the road, with a fenced pool the size of a grapefruit in the middle of the parking lot and a bar on either side. Sam pulled in and parked in front of the office.

"I'll get the room," Sam said, then stopped. "You have any cards we haven't used? We're a month past due on all of mine."

"Damn," Dean muttered. He reached under the seat and pulled out the emergency packet; three or four credit cards, salted in with maps, lightsticks, and about forty dollars in small bills. He handed Sam the card on top. "Here you go, Michael Davis. Don't spend it all in one place."

Sam smiled uncomfortably. Dean was pretty sure that no matter what the circumstance, it was never going to get easier for Sam to embrace this criminal lifestyle thing. Dean wondered if it had bugged Sam the entire time they were growing up, once he was old enough to figure it out, or if it just came over him late in life. That was Sam's problem - he wanted to be respectable and normal.

When Sam disappeared into the office, Dean slid over behind the wheel and pulled out his phone. There was a missed call flashing on the screen, a number he didn't recognize. Sweat broke out on his upper lip. He flipped the phone open and dialed voice mail, then listened to some woman tell him about her poltergeist in a halting narrative, punctuated by little hesitations, as if she couldn't quite believe she was confessing her insane theories to a stranger's voice mail. Usually it was enough to bring a little bit of arrogant compassion into his heart, and then he'd call and reassure them that no, they weren't crazy and yes, Dean Winchester could fix their problems.

Not tonight, though. She'd have to wait.

He saved her message and closed the phone. It wasn't quite dark, but close enough that the motel lights were on, a stripped-down whiteness overpowering the gloomy shadows.

Both hands clasped on the steering wheel, he tried to think through the next twenty-four hours, step by step. Sam would talk him into getting a beer, and they'd get a little drunk, coasting on the belief that nothing could get to them right now. Dean wasn't able to convince himself it was true, but that was his problem, his paranoia. He'd put on a good show for Sam, anyway. Then Sam would try not to make it obvious that he was scared, and Dean would use the phone to call their father, and then they'd see just how well that spell worked, anyway.

He gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. Next to the Impala, a car full of road-tripping Midwesterners pulled up and disgorged four small kids, whining about bathroom breaks and boredom and dinner. He watched the mom get out of the car - good-looking, still young, but asleep on her feet - and then the dad, smiling and promising a swim before bed.

Dad had never let them swim when they were kids. Motels weren't for vacation, he'd said; they were just a necessary stopping point. Sometimes Dean had let Sam swim anyway, when Dad was on the hunt.

Every time his father's face appeared into his mind's eye, cold crept over him alongside the image, the kind of cold made of gut-deep fear. If he could just get that sensation off his skin; the demon touching him with his father's hands, his father's mouth, the sound of the demon's words wrapped in his father's voice.

C'mon, Dean. Ohhh, that's right. Is this the best you can do? Put up a fight.

All the angry post-hunt diatribes and impatient lessons had been delivered in that same scornful, mocking tone.

You want people to think you're weak? You have to stand up for yourself. Come on, Dean. What, are you holding back because it's me? Put up a fight, son.

His mind replayed them in tandem, the demon's taunts and his father's barbs, until he could barely tell them apart.

The idea of seeing his dad again made his hair stand on end, goose bumps all over his body, and his stomach curled into a tight knot. The little voice of self-preservation whispered to him that it might be the same thing, that he was asking for death, inviting it to his doorstep.

"Hey," Sam said at the window, and Dean jumped. Then he slammed his hand into the steering wheel, because he might as well have been asleep, his head was so far out of the game. "Sorry," Sam said, backing up a step. Dean opened his mouth to tell him that wasn't the goddamned point, but he closed it again at the look on Sam's face. "C'mon, we're in fourteen. And then we can get a beer."

"You are such an alcoholic," Dean said, and watched as a cautious light of optimism came into Sam's eyes. Better. "Maybe they'll sell us a bottle, instead."

"That'd work." Sam took it in stride, and Dean couldn't help but be a little grateful. It may have been the first time in the history of his life that he'd recoiled at the idea of spending time in a room full of strangers, but he was tired, and he didn't have any energy to spare.

Twenty minutes later they had a bottle of whiskey and four bottles of dark beer, plus four bags of chips and two sandwiches. They split the loot between them, sitting on their respective beds and munching down handfuls of chips, then washing it down with booze. A lot of booze, actually. Enough to empty three quarters of a bottle, and Sam wasn't really having any, yet. Dean was starting to feel pleasantly warm again, and he didn't mind the numbness at all. It took the edge off.

"Paint is itchy," he said, rubbing his shirt over his chest absently.

Sam snickered. "You remember in third grade, how I plastered my hands and forearms with paste and you had to peel it off me after it dried?"

"Yeah," Dean said, and drank some whiskey out of the cheap motel glass. "And I remember you itching for a week."

"That wasn't as bad as when I got poison ivy and didn't tell you because I knew you'd make fun of me."

"Damn straight! What kind of Winchester doesn't know about poison ivy?"

"The kind who never got to go camping?" Sam said. "Unless you consider sleeping in the car camping."

"Not really," Dean agreed. The room was spinning around to the left, and he let himself spin with it. Easiest way to keep from puking. "That was pretty fucked up."

"I had that rash for weeks," Sam said. He leaned forward and flailed until he caught the lip of the whiskey bottle with his fingers, then pinched it and lifted it over to his lap.

Dean could remember how pissed their dad had been, and how fast that evaporated when he saw the welts developing on Sammy's chest. Then it had been calamine lotion and cold compresses and antihistamines and lukewarm baths, and Dean had enjoyed it while it lasted, because their dad contrite was a lot nicer to be around than their dad focused and obsessed.

His tailbone was aching, so he stood up and swayed, looking around the room. "You got my phone?" he asked, and just like that, Sam's mood changed.

"I'll do it," he said, and touched the buttons on his own phone. The pale blue light reflected on Sam's face made him look like a ghost.

For twenty minutes or so, Sam worked his way down the list of their father's friends and fellow hunters. Have you seen him, do you know where he is, could you tell him to call me. The same questions, again and again, and each time Sam avoided looking at Dean.

"'s pointless," Dean said, finally, pouring himself another half glass of whiskey. Sam shot him a look, but said nothing.

The phone rang, startling them both. Sam answered it with a neutral "Hello?" and then listened for a good thirty seconds.

When he met Dean's eyes, Dean tossed back the rest of his whiskey without stopping.

"Yeah," Sam said, and then, "Meet us tomorrow at 5:00 am in Franklin, in the field behind the gas station just outside of town. At the crossroads. You know where I mean?" A pause, and then, "Yeah." Another pause, and "No." And then, stronger: "I said no. Be there."

The soft plop of the phone hitting the bedspread, and then Sam poured himself a drink. Sam's face was pale, but his eyes were full of anger. "So what d'ya think?" Dean asked. "Is it...that thing, or is it Dad?"

"I can't tell," Sam said softly. "But there's no way I'm letting him talk to you."

"Could have had him meet us at Bobby's," Dean said, watching Sam drink his whiskey.

"Need to see if the charm works before we put Bobby in danger," Sam said, pausing the glass halfway to his lips. "We owe him."

"No way to know for sure."

Sam nodded. "Best we can do."

Dean was cold, and the whiskey wasn't helping. He started moving, got a little bit of forward momentum, and got all the way to the bathroom before he had to sit down hard on the closed toilet seat. Pain tore through him from his ass all the way up to the top of his spine and he hissed out loud. "Christ," he said, and a second later, Sam was there, looking all sorrowful and helpful and it really, really pissed Dean off.

"Get in the shower," Sam ordered, stripping down himself.

Dean rolled his eyes. "I can wash myself, thanks," he said, but Sam's expression was deadly serious.

"No, you can't. I need to get the paint off those bites, and I'm disgusting too, and dude. Just do it."

"Yes, sir," Dean said, his voice gone low with mocking. It took him two tries to paw the shirt off over his head, and then he fell sideways. Sam poked him until he sat up again.

By the time they got into the shower, Dean was half asleep, and he stood with his head propped against the nice cool tiles while Sam fussed over him with a washcloth and some strongly-scented soap, picking flakes of paint off his skin and washing the damn bites. It all hurt, every touch and scrape and beat of the water, and Sam was being so gentle Dean wanted to punch him right in the face, but he didn't, because Sam was trying so fucking hard not to hurt him.

He submitted to having his hair dried with a towel, Sam's hands rubbing back and forth over his head, before he shrugged into clean clothes and followed Sam out of the bathroom. "That's the last time we are ever doing that," he said, matter-of-fact, before he flopped down on the bed.

"Whatever." Sam was drying his own mass of hair, so his words were muffled.

"No band-aids?" Dean said, watching Sam as he tossed the towel on the other bed. The neck of his shirt was wet.

"You don't need them. Everything is closing up fine."

"Says you," Dean said, and then stopped himself. That was just stupid. He rolled on his back, made a little yelp of pain, and then rolled on his side again, curled in on himself.

"Move over," Sam said, and Dean looked up to see Sam looming over the bed.

"Goddamn," he said, grinning up. "You're huge."

"Shut up," Sam said. He sprawled out beside Dean and closed his eyes. "And go to sleep."

Dean watched Sam for a minute, the way his body tensed and how every muscle, from his jaw to his toes, seemed to be clenched. That, he could understand.

"Circle of two," he huffed, as if saying it could make it so. Sam blinked, but didn't answer.

Just before he fell asleep, Dean moved forward and rested his forehead against Sam's, clinging to a memory from when he was ten and Sam was six and everything was changing again; they were moving to a new town, faster than Dean could process, and Sam had been scared.

Sam shifted closer, warm and comforting. Dean remembered telling him a bedtime story, that they were really breathing the same breath instead of two breaths, and Sam was safe as long as it was so.

**
continued in part two